


Nothing but Need

by Marquise



Category: Secret History - Donna Tartt
Genre: Drunk Sex, Hate Sex, M/M, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:21:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26167072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: It was only when he was drunk, only when he could bring himself to need Francis, that he thought of him in such a possessive light.
Relationships: Francis Abernathy/Charles Macaulay, Francis Abernathy/Original Character(s)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 26





	Nothing but Need

“I will kill anyone that looks at you the way I look at you.”

Charles slurred the words against the ivory column of his throat, his hands pinning Francis to the wall with such force that Francis knew -- hoped -- he would wake with the pattern of bruises against his flesh. He could practically taste the tobacco and liquor coming off the man’s lips, and indeed he breathed in deeply in an effort to hold it all in, to remember it in conjunction with these words when the morning came and none of this would have happened. 

He knew Charles had been watching him at the party, had felt his gaze as he moved with that freshman off into the bathroom, had thought about the intense anger he saw in his look as he sucked the boy off, his knees aching on the tile. With the taste of semen on his lips he had emerged only to catch Charles’ eyes, to see the drunken lust and anger there, and his own choked desire (for really, that boy could have at least reciprocated) came over him in a flood. Francis had shrugged on his coat and moved off into the snow, lighting a cigarette as he went, and it was not long before Charles had stumbled up beside him. They weaved against each other as they made their way to Francis’ place without words, for the rage and desire that radiated from the other man had left Francis in a state that was quite breathless. 

When they entered his rooms Francis had snubbed out his cigarette just in time to be shoved back against the wall with such anger that his breath had been knocked from him. This show of violence did nothing to calm his cock and when those words were spoken -- words he knew he would hold in his mind for years to come, would stroke himself off while thinking about -- he could do nothing more that press himself against the other man’s body. 

It was all a lie, of course. Charles would do no such thing. It was only when he was drunk, only when he could bring himself to need Francis, that he thought of him in such a possessive light. But really, did that make it any less _real?_

Charles pulled back, swaying slightly, his eyes wide and bright and his teeth bared. Francis could feel the skin he had sucked throb and he knew there would be a mark there when they went to class tomorrow; he wondered in Charles would linger over it, would think of this act. 

“I never took you for a romantic,” he said, his voice raw in his throat. Charles did not saw a word. He merely turned him roughly so that his face was pressed against the wall, his fingers tearing away at Francis’ trousers, baring his skin in a way that was shameful and base and raw. Francis caught his breath, hoping he could remember at least -- in his drunken state -- to fetch the oil from the bedroom. There had been too many nights when he had not, when he had endured the pain and blood that came with using spit as lube just because he had wanted nothing more than to have this man take him. It was not something he was proud of, even though he had focused on the pain for weeks after that. 

But this time he was worried, with the way Charles was gripping at his neck, with the anger in his previous words. He wondered if he had not left the party at that moment what he would have done to that boy and whether or not Francis would have enjoyed seeing it. 

“No,” he said, as forcefully as he could. “Not until you get it.”

He heard Charles sigh, mutter a curse, but then he was gone, stumbling toward the bedroom, leaving him bare and wanting just beside his front door. He thought for a moment that he should follow him, allow him to fuck him in his bed nice and proper, but there was an energy here he did not wish to break. There was something rude and filthy about being taken like this, something he felt he deserved. 

Before he had decided Charles was back, thankfully slicking him up with the arcane oil Francis insisted to use. He slid inside without restraint, muttering something about what a whore he was that made Francis keen. 

His own cock was rigid, pressed against the wall. With the hand that was not braced against the wall Charles took it, his grip hard and thankfully still slick with the oil. He moved in time with his thrusts, taking him in a rough and awkward rhythm that made it so Francis could not properly breath. He was on his toes, his head thrown back, focusing on the fullness of Charles, the pain radiating from his hands. 

He came quickly, staining the wall, spilling against Charles’ fingers; his body had been poised for this for hours. Charles swore in his ear as he clenched around him and then he was filling him, his semen stained hand moving to grip Francis’ hair, a filthy act that sent an aftershock thrill rushing though his body. 

He knew he would be thinking of this, of the feel and the smell of him, of the debasement of this, for _years_. 

They were quite afterward, as they always were. Charles held him pressed against the wall for a moment and Francis could taste blood in his mouth from where he had bitten his lip at the climax. With shaking legs he turned, stared into the other man’s eyes, hoping against hope that he would kiss him, that he would taste that stain and even, perhaps, the remnants of the other man. Maybe he would say something possessive like that now, even though his desire had been met. 

Instead Charles ran a hand through his own hair and looked away, toward the kitchen. “I need a drink,” he said and walked off to search through his cabinets. It would not be long, Francis knew, until he was asleep on his couch, and soon enough this would all be a dream. 

He rested himself against the wall and closed his eyes, willing the pain in his chest to cease.


End file.
